


I Would Die For the Possibility to Protect You

by sansastarks



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, I wasn't going to write smut but then I did, Romance, S7 Spoilers, Smut, mention of past rape, my first jonsa fanfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2018-01-23
Packaged: 2019-03-08 15:55:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13461549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sansastarks/pseuds/sansastarks
Summary: Her hair is intertwined in a long braid; there’s a bit of shine from the snow dampening in it. Exhaustion is clear on her face from the travel, but all Jon can think is that she looks glorious.--In which Jon and Sansa reunite and Jon makes a few different decisions.





	I Would Die For the Possibility to Protect You

**Author's Note:**

> 1) This is my first ever Jonsa fic. I hope I've done the characters justice. I rewatched season 6 and 7 and was again inspired to write something. Season 7 events really frustrated me, so it has gone just a tad AU at the end. There's so much good writing in this fandom that I wanted to contribute something. 
> 
> 2) This is entirely based on the TV show. I'm drawing from the specific reunion in 6x04 between Jon and Sansa, then going from there. 
> 
> 3) The theory of Jon's actions in s7 as being political is so interesting to me. To be honest, I'm not sure how I feel about it or if I completely buy into it. We know Jon isn't political, so that is the reason I question it. However, Sansa did tell him not to act like their family has... and maybe that inspired him to try and play the game. I'm not sure. Anyways the end kind of hints at a possible political thing, maybe not. 
> 
> 4) I own nothing related to the television series Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire by George R. R. Martin

Her hair is intertwined in a long braid; there’s a bit of shine from the snow dampening in it. Exhaustion is clear on her face from the travel, but all Jon can think is that she looks _glorious_. 

There has never been such a blessed sight at Castle Black. Not Stannis’s wife, not the Red Witch, not Sam’s sweet Gilly. And the only memories he has of Ygritte is her stern stare and flared nostrils before the arrow pierced through her. _Not so lucky then._ It appears Sansa’s hair hasn’t brought her much good fortune either.

He remembers those last few moments around her. Never with her—no—but near. Her smile had grown wider than he’d ever seen it when the prince had dismounted and headed towards her. Her hair was braided a bit more intricately the day they all left Winterfell. He had seen her sneering at Arya and blushing under Cersei’s scrutiny. When Arya had given one last wave, as Jon mounted his horse, Sansa had stood beside her. Her blue eyes met his a final time. Jon knew as they headed for the wheelhouse, that he would never see Sansa Stark again. 

She’s survived though. Her eyes train his movements as he makes his way down the steps with a caution of a man newly resurrected. She’s grown even taller, if that was possible. Her cheeks are sharpened. Her eyes just as blue. Sansa had always been the prettiest thing at Winterfell—it was known. As a bastard, he had no right to the pretty things. 

Sansa steps closer, her cloak clinging to her. They pause, several feet from each other. She is a woman now and he is a man. And they are alive. Her arms are around his neck and he hoists her up, her heels an inch above the snow. He feels her nose nuzzle against his hair and he is alive. When they finally release each other, there is a shaky smile on her lips and an uncertainty Jon has never seen in her. It is as if Sansa has brought Winterfell with her and she embodies everything that was. Everything before. 

It only takes Jon a few moments to regain control and bark out orders for rooms to be readied. Sansa has brought companions and he knows that after they sit down, he must thank them. Thank them for her. 

Sansa heads up the stairs slowly, her lady protector, Brienne, beside her. Tormund thumps his shoulder, halting him for a moment. The man chuckles, saying, “A woman for you and a woman for me.”

His heart jolts for a moment at the implication. He’s shared backstory with his brothers at the Wall that he's close with, yet he didn't share much about his family with the free folk. He knows he mentioned Robb and Arya. But Sansa? He can’t quite recall saying much about her in an effort to not sound like the bastard he is. 

“I—she is—“

Tormund doesn’t give him a chance to finish though as he’s pushing him up the stairs after Sansa. Jon tries to shake off the man’s comments, but feels himself faltering as he joins Sansa in his room. The door is wide open, but he does not see her. Someone has made a fire and she sits, huddled near it. When he coughs to make his presence known, her shoulders tense as she draws herself to her full height. 

“Sansa.”  
Her body relaxes as she turns to gaze at him. Her lashes brush against her cheeks as she looks down. “Thank you.”

“I haven’t done anything,” Jon says.

“You let us in,” she replies. 

“I-I would never refuse you.” His cheeks burn at the phrasing, but a flash of anger bubbles in him that she would think otherwise.

She must sense he’s offended as she meets his eyes again. “Of course. You’re Jon. The most honorable man since father.”

Her compliment is a high one and she must know it, but her face gives no more away. There’s a gentleness that reaches her eyes though, at his expression. She glances back at the fire and he takes a moment to let his eyes roam over her. She’s wrapped in his furs, wearing more black than he’s ever seen on her before. 

He tries not to let his voice crack when he asks, “Sansa, what happened?”

Jon isn’t sure what he’s referring to. _What happened in King’s Landing? What happened with the king? What happened with Father? What happened in between? What happened to you?_

“It’s a rather long, unpleasant story.”

“If you don't want to tell it, I understand.”

“No. No—I—it would help, I think. To tell someone,” she says, voice shaky.

Her story begins with the butcher’s boy, Lady, and Prince Joffrey. She mentions names Jon is only vaguely familiar with, such as the Tyrells and Petyr Baelish. She talks about her handmaiden Shae and her _first_ marriage. “I was so terrified. I was terrified even though it was not Joffrey. But somehow still, my heart shattered. Lord Tyrion was kind to me though. He didn’t have to be, but he was.”

“Sansa—“

She holds up her hand and continues her tale. She talks about her aunt at the Vale. “She looked like mother, but she was nothing like her.” Her tale lands her back in Winterfell with a second husband. Her voice trembles now and her palms reach out to grasp her dress. Her gaze leaves his and turns to the fire. There’s resentment and fear and _anger_ in her voice as she speaks of Ramsay Bolton. 

“As if raping me was not enough, he made Theon watch,” she hisses. Her brows are furrowed. 

Jon feels something come alight in him as he pushes out of his chair. “ _What?,/I >”_

__

“Theon was there. On my wedding night. He was Ramsay’s prisoner too. Ramsay made him ‘Reek’. I hated Reek almost as much as Theon. But Theon helped me Jon. We jumped off the side of Winterfell into the snow. We could have died then. I’m not sure which of us would have welcomed death more.”

“Sansa, I’m _so sorry_.”

“Don’t apologize, Jon. You’ve only ever treated me like a lady, even when we were young. I’m here now. Brienne and Podrick helped bring me here. I am sure the road for you has not been any easier. 

Jon feels his scars burn at her words. He sees Ygritte’s hair fanned out around her in the cave. _No, but at least I got a few moments of love_. “Let’s not think about the past anymore tonight.”

Sansa reaches out her hand and squeezes his. Apparently she is not finished bestowing compliments as she says, “You are the best man left in this kingdom, Jon Snow.”

His heart flutters and skips as he pulls her into one more hug. She is still the best woman in the kingdom, of that he is sure.

—

“She’s a fine woman, your sister. I look forward to having her back in my bed.”

Jon sees red and the urge to pull out Longclaw and slice Ramsay Bolton in two is barely contained. His horse kicks at the ground, as if in agreement. 

Tomorrow, he will tear Ramsay Bolton apart. Jon is a wolf.

—

Sansa wears her hair down again, and it falls down her back and around her shoulders like a protective shield. She has made another new dress, another direwolf pattern along her breast. Her furs are so similar to Jon’s, that when they walk together they look like one. 

The people love her. The free folk whisper about the “highborn lady kissed by fire” and the Northern lords and Vale knights watch her every move with awe. She strides through their home with a new strength. 

She walks towards him, a guarded expression on her face. When she finally reaches him, Jon sees the tiny snowflakes not yet melted in her hair. “Your Grace,” she says, lips curled slightly.

“Just Jon,” he says without pause. He never wants to be anything but Jon to her. Not a lord commander. Not a king. Not a half-brother. 

Her head tilts, her smile widening, “Jon.”

There’s so much he wants to say. _He didn’t ask to be king. He’s not sure he can be king. Winterfell is hers as much as it is his. The north is hers and he’d give it all to her in a heartbeat_. “How are you?”

Her nose crinkles as she surveys the increasing hustle and bustle around Winterfell in preparation for the long night. “Brienne just asked me that. I am better.”

“Would you tell me if you were not?”

The wind blows her hair but the rest of her is unmoving. “I trust you, Jon.”

“And about the enemy to the North?”

She nods. It’s a brewing argument between them as of late. The Night King or Cersei. Can they even tackle both? He knows she knows Cersei. He knows that her life in the South is still as real to her as the stinging in his chest is for him. It has not faded for her; she lives it still. That thirteen year old tormented by a blond asshole with too much power. 

“I value you, Sansa. Your opinion, that is. And you, of course. I mean—“

“I understand. Just please remember I _know_ the game,” she says in a grave tone. 

Her blue eyes are pleading with him, even as she continues to remain stoic otherwise. He resists the urge to pull her into his arms. It’s an urge that he has had to suppress more and more of late. But reality is pushed on him again, at her words. However much he wants them to be just Jon and Sansa, they cannot. They are the King in the North and the Lady of Winterfell. They are in the game.

—

He knew his decision would anger her. She has taken every moment to implore him to not travel South. _Do you remember what happened to our father? Our brother? The other northmen? And that was facing a queen that did_ not _have dragons._

He will leave her the north though. The North is hers. It can be no one else’s, for Sansa fights for it like no one can. 

Her angry glare lives in his mind though as he begins packing his clothes. He also did not miss the look that Littlefinger had sent her way after Jon’s proclamation. His grip hardens as he shoves his clothes in the small bag. 

A knock on Jon’s door startles him out of his brooding. Even as he opens the door, he knows it must be her. 

“Were you not going to say a proper goodbye?” Sansa asks. Her voice is monotone, but her eyes show hurt. 

“I did not think you would want to see me, my lady.”

“You are a fool, Jon.”

His temper flares. He’s part Stark afterall. “Aye, I do know some things. Important things, like dragon glass killing white walkers.”  
“Yes. And now you’re going to risk your life for a possibility of mining it. You would die for that?”

 _I would die for the possibility to protect you._ “I need to do this, Sansa. What is done is done.”

Her lips purse as she moves closer to him. “You are a fool, Jon.”

There’s no opportunity for him to retort though, as her lips press against her. He can’t move for a moment. It’s as if one of his recent dreams has come alive. Her—in his room—eagerly pressing her mouth to his is the stuff that plagues his dreams. 

She pulls away, hesitancy clear on her face. He realizes he has not responded. “Jon, I—“

He might regret this. He might not. He pulls her into his arm, pressing his lips to hers, coaxing her with his tongue to open up. She lets out a whine, tugging on his hair. She’s sweet. Despite it all, Sansa is still sweet. Strong and sweet. He pulls away to bury his nose in her hair, inhaling her incase he never can again. His lips press against her jaw and neck at a frantic pace.

Her noises are soft and alluring. Her hands begin to explore, raking downwards. He’s straining against his breeches in discomfort now. God, he wants her. He’s wanted her.

“ _Sansa._ ”

“Please, Jon. Please,” she whispers.

He stumbles back. They are both heaving and her breasts strain against her dress. She’s flushed and glorious. He can’t ruin her. “Sansa, no. You deserve someone better. Someone worthy.”

She moves forward, still heavily breathing. “You are brave and gentle and strong, Jon Snow. I do not need anything more.”

When she moves forward again, arms wrapping around him, he lets her. Her smile wavers. “Please, let me send you off.”

Jon recalls the stories Sansa loved as a little girl. He’s sure that there were some with galant knights off to war, and their lady wives would send them off with tender kisses and more. Something swells up inside him.

He pulls her to him again, slowly tugging at the strings of her dress with a careless inexperience. Her breaths are hot against his neck. Their hips rock against each other and Jon fears he will spill before even feeling her bare skin. 

Their movements are hurried as the stare at each other with hooded lids. She’s pressing him down into his bed, then, gaze determined. “You’re beautiful,” Jon says.

She’s got several scars. So does he. If they had more time, he’s sure they would explore each other’s body fully. Next time. Except, there may not be a next time. Cannot be, his brain tries to reason. 

Sansa’s cheeks are pink, her lips swollen. She settles her legs on either side of his thighs before sinking down. A groan escapes him. She’s tight and warm and good. She falls forward slightly, pressing her palms against his chest. Her hair falls around her.

She begins rocking her hips experimentally. Her eyes meet his. “Come back to me, Jon.”

She feels so good. He loves her so much. He can barely keep his mind straight. He nods as she moves up and down on him. “Yes. _Yes_ , sweet girl.”

“Come back to me, Jon.”

“Yes. Always,” he says. 

—

The first night in Dragonstone, he takes himself in hand to the thought of her. This is admittedly nothing new, but now he knows how it feels to be inside her. 

Sansa is waiting for him. He will do whatever necessary to return to her. She wanted him to stop protecting her. He will not. He will do _anything_ to protect _her_. Anything for her. And he will return.

**Author's Note:**

> direct quote from season 6 episode 9, "Battle of the Bastards" written by David Benioff and D.B. Weiss, directed by Miguel Sapochnik.
> 
> I'm on Tumblr: thkingslayer


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